


A Single Explosion

by theskywasblue



Category: The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sort of, almost, vaguely remembers an explosion</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Single Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> written for [](http://springkink.livejournal.com/profile)[**springkink**](http://springkink.livejournal.com/) prompt May 17th - hurt/comfort - the mission went completely wrong.

The worst part of it is that Jensen’s lost his glasses, somewhere in the middle of it all, and he can’t see a goddamn thing. Being without his glasses makes him panic, with the sheer, subtle gut-twist of someone who has been more or less functionally blind without a carefully constructed combination of wire and glass on his face for as long as he can remember.

He’s more scared of not being able to see than he is of the fact that he hasn’t got a hot clue what’s going on, that his chest feels like someone put a spear through it or that he can taste his own blood in the back of his mouth.

He sort of, almost, vaguely remembers an explosion. Mom always told him not to play with fireworks – maybe that’s why his ears are ringing.

It’s getting harder to breathe. He wishes he were more worried about that.

Something jostles him, hard, and the pain is like a bottle rocket up through his chest and into his throat. The back of his mouth tastes like fire and blood. He remembers little red numbers counting down – five, four, three – and then Cougar’s voice in his ear, _Jake, run!_

He’s never really been a good runner – that’s the truth. He still has scars from all the beatings he took as a kid just because he hated to turn tail or to curl up and beg for his life. Well, he’s good at _running_ , physically; he can do a five minute mile, let it never be said that he’s out of shape just because he spends a lot of time behind a computer – but yeah, he’s not a _runner_.

He thinks now that maybe he should have practiced a little. Couldn’t have hurt.

It’s only when he stops moving that he realizes he was, in the first place. Everything gets brighter, and more painful. Someone is screaming “Be Positive!” And Jensen thinks, _How can I be positive when I think I’m dying?_ before he remembers that’s his blood-type, and oh – it must be worse than he thought.

He hopes Cougar didn’t see it – the explosion. Bad for the eyes, that kind of brightness, the way it would sear into the retinas through the narrow line of a scope; and Cougar needs his eyes. Jensen happens to like Cougar’s eyes.

They’re a lot better than his own.

Everything’s so bright but he can’t see shit; over the ringing in his ears, he can hear people shouting, jumbles of words that don’t make any sense, even though he’s pretty sure they’re English. Then again, Jensen’s never been good with other languages – unless they were spoken with a keyboard.

Then, someone says something loudly in Spanish – Jensen’s not sure if it’s a curse or a prayer but he recognizes the voice – feels the word _Cougar_ being ripped from his throat like a piece of shrapnel; and then someone else shouts, “Get him the fuck out of here!” and Jensen blacks out.

When he comes to again, it’s still very bright – scarily bright, like the inside of a light bulb at first, until his eyes adjust a little – but his head doesn’t hurt anymore. In fact, nothing hurts immediately; he feels sort of...float-y and good and there’s a familiar dark, blurry shape in a cowboy hat sitting next to his bed.

“Hey buddy...”Jensen’s voice sounds like his throat went ten rounds with a box of Cubans and a bottle of whiskey; unfortunately, he remembers now, that’s not actually what happened, “d’you know what they did with m’glasses?”

He watches the Cougar-shape reach for something next to the bed, then stretch across him, carefully sliding slightly bent wire frames onto Jensen’s face. One lens is missing and the other is badly cracked, but it's just enough to see by, in a kaleidescope way. Cougar looks like Jensen thinks he ought to feel – battered, wrung out, like the world exploded around him. There are grey circles under his eyes, too much scruff on his chin and blood on his shirt.

It's only then that Jensen realizes that Cougar probably thought he was watching him die.

Jensen tries to lift his head and have a look at himself – it's harder than it should be and he's not sure if they've strapped him to the bed or if whatever they've given him has cut all the nerve endings between his body and his brain.

"Have I got all my fingers?" He asks finally, because he needs to know. They're important, he likes them; they can do things like write thousands of lines of computer code and unfasten Cougar’s shirt buttons.

" _Si_ ," Cougar nods minutely, and when Jensen asks about his toes, he offers, "Those too." (Not as important, really – Jensen could manage without them, he'd be like Oracle, but without the boobs) and Jensen says, "Okay – okay, not so bad."

Then, something under Cougar's hat goes...cloudy. It’s a reaction that Jensen normally associates with the word _Afghanistan_ and he doesn’t like it – that cloudy, pained face. Cougar’s too good a guy to look like he thinks the world hates him.

Jensen’s put less concentration into forty-eight hour hacking sessions than he has to use now to move his own hand – but as it turns out, he does, in fact, still have fingers, maybe even ten of them – and bump it up against Cougar’s knee.

“C’mon Cougs, s’no big deal. M’still here, aren’t I? M’not goin’ anywhere...” he hardly gets the words out before he yawns, huge and jaw-cracking and probably unattractive. He’s aware of a low throb in his chest at the deep breath he has to take, but there’s still no real pain just yet – but that’s not going to last; and Jensen knows from experience that it’s seriously going to suck when the painkillers wear off.

“Except to sleep,” Cougar snorts, dryly, plucking Jensen’s glasses from his face, rendering him mostly blind again.

Jensen makes a helpless grab for them, his hand flopping uselessly over the side of the bed. “C’mon, give ‘em back. M’okay.”

But Cougar isn’t listening. He lifts Jensen’s hand from where it’s flopping in mid-air and puts it carefully back on the bed. His hand is warm, and the touch of it makes Jensen suddenly groggy. If it wasn’t so bright, he might sleep. He might sleep anyway, sleep sounds good.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, are you Cougs?”

“No,” Cougar says, his voice as heavy as the weight of his hand on Jensen’s wrist. Jensen can’t see it anymore, but he knows Cougar’s still wearing that cloudy face.

“Good,” Jensen’s eyelids droop once, twice. It’s harder, each time, to get them open again. “M’sorry I got blown up. I won’t do it again.”

“Better not.”

Something squeezes Jensen’s hand. It hurts a little, but he doesn’t mind.

-End-


End file.
